“Life sha,” he said. Little droplets of tears had gathered by the side of each eye, but were taking their time to fall. “This life is a mystery.” He was seventy three and mourning the loss of his wife of forty years. He was my great uncle, my grandfather’s brother, but they say there’s no such thing as a grand uncle.

So we had gone to visit him, my aunt and me. Everyone else had the perfect reason not to go see him. He was mean to my grandmother, their mother. He favoured the other wives of my grandad, who had three and half wives. He was a diabolical man. They had businesses to run, important things to do. All their excuses were infallible. So we went, me with my heart in my mouth. I hadn’t seen him since I was six, and if all the stories I heard were true, he was an ogre.

But the voice I heard, the one that responded to our knock on the gate, didn’t sound like the voice of an ogre. It sounded like what it was-the frail gruffness of an old man’s voice. And even though I shouldn’t have been, I was surprised at his pleasant welcome. He even remembered me from 26 years ago.
We sat with him and listened to him recount the events that led to his wife’s death, and I shed a few tears when he told us that only a handful from his brother’s (my grandfather’s) family called to condole him, even though they all heard what happened.

My grandmother was the best friend I ever had, and that someone ever treated her unjustly is a bitter pill to swallow, but she’s been dead for eleven years now. Who keeps a grudge for eleven years? Several people in my family apparently. But seeing this man, meeting him and listening to him, but more importantly seeing the pain on his face as he spoke with us really just broke me.

You know, polygamy is an integral part of the African lifestyle, and polygamy carries offence on its back, it’s favorite travel companion. The end result is broken relationships that sometimes are generations old. But where is the love in all of this?

Another very big part of the African lifestyle, especially here in Nigeria, is our people’s love for God. We love God so much, the average street has up to four churches situated therein. Yet we’re highly intolerant of each other, and our propensity for forgiveness is extremely low, especially among those who constantly profess their love for God.
We conveniently forget that according to biblical standards, your love for your neighbour is directly proportional to your love for God. The latter is impossible without the former. Once again, I’m compelled to ask, where is the love? Where is it?

“I love you”: The most abused phrase in the history of the English language if you ask me. Abused because everyone says it, but very few truly understand it. Feels good on the tongue so yeah, we use it. People will define it in several ways, but I’ve chosen to stick with the definition in First Corinthians 13. Some versions of the bible replace “love” with “charity”, and maybe if we saw love as charity, we’d understand the concept better. Because there’s simply not enough charity in the world today.

I’ll never forget this one time, on my way to work. My almost husband had dropped me off under the pedestrian bridge at Ikeja. It was drizzling as I hurriedly made my way to the bottom of the stairs. And then I saw this tall dark man, wearing dark sunglasses in spite of the weather. He was walking quite blindly in the middle of a huge puddle, a cane stick in his right hand helped him navigate his way. And then I knew. He was blind. And people were watching him make a complete mess of himself, but they couldn’t be bothered, because they had jobs to get to. Even a policeman who was there for reasons like this one, couldn’t care less.
I went to the man and grabbed his arm. It turned out he was trying to get a bus to oshodi, and because he couldn’t see, he thought he was going in the right direction. After I got him into a bus, I couldn’t help the rush of angry tears as I climbed the bridge. It was raining now, but I didn’t care. I was angry at a system that made people so occupied with their own survival that they cared nothing about the survival of another.

Love believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things, doesn’t keep a record of offences. Love is patient, kind, gentle, not boastful. Love is sacrifice, a way of life, a commitment that never dies. Love is a force so powerful it can do the impossible. Love is God. This is what Jesus stood for, and what we who profess faith should stand for, regardless of what we go through. Regardless of who hurts us.

Life is a mystery. My great uncle must have said this over twenty times that day. And I’ll never know why he feels life is a mystery. He may have done bad, but who is really innocent? A fundamental law that governs life as we know it, is the law of seed time and harvest. You never really get away with anything you do, whether good or bad. It’s best you do good, be charitable, show the world love. Forgive. Go out of your way to be kind. Above all, love. Where is the love? I say it’s in you. It’s in all of us.

Be great!

Love,
Urigi.

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It’s not even 5am yet, and if you’re like me and your bedtime is 2am most days, you’ll know the sleep gets sweet at about this time. A knock on my door wakes me, and I don’t have to ask who it is because it’s been happening for about a week now. It’s Cecelia, the teenager who lives with us (I’m not sure I like the term “house help”), and my mother’s morning messenger.

“Aunty good morning,” she says in that mousey way of hers that is amusing on good days. “Mummy said I should ask you if you’re going to church.” She has come every morning for the past week, asks me the same question, and my answer is always the same, “Tell her no”, after which I would cuddle my third pillow and proceed on the return trip to lala land. But today is different. Last night, I’d resolved to start attending the daily prayer meetings. I mean, I know 2015 is pregnant with potential, and prayer will make sure that she doesn’t suffer a miscarriage. So this morning, I tell Cecelia to tell my mother that I’ll be ready in ten minutes.

I lie on the bed another two minutes, then drag myself to brush my teeth. A sweatshirt and denim pants later, I’m ready for the long walk with the mummy to the nearby parish. We’re on the street, trekking, it’s still not 5am yet, when she starts her lecture on the demerits of wearing jeans to early morning prayer, early being the operative word in my own head. I’m not really interested in this lecture, I’m more interested in the merits of this walk as they apply to my size 16 frame, and the reduction thereof.

“This kind of service is too holy for someone to be wearing jeans,” she says, disapproval rubbing loud and clear in her voice.

Silence.

“Why a sweatshirt? You should have at least worn a long to to cover your thighs.”

Silence.

“You’ll see for yourself the calibre of people that attend the prayers. See how many of them are wearing jeans there.”

Explosive deafening silence.

“How can my daughter be seen wearing jeans to this kind of gathering? And she’s walking with me!”

At this point I am livid. I quicken my steps to put as much distance between us as possible. So my mother is ashamed of being seen with me because I am wearing jeans to a prayer meeting that will last only an hour.
But really, what is it with church folk and their “Pharisee-ism”? Yes, apparently my mother is one of them (rolls eyes 360°). Church people can tell who is holy just by looking at them. They know what they want to see, they have pointers that they look out for:

Virgin hair and Darling Yaki weaves

Face void of make up

Plain Jane dresses, four inches below the knee

Blouses and skirts, at least two sizes bigger

Black shoes, the lower the more the mastery of the Holy Spirit

Yes, this pretty much sums it up. The picture of a born again, spirit filed, tongue talking, hell shaking sister.

But why? This hurts me to the marrow, the way we place labels on people with just one look. Who is to say that the girl down the road, voluptuous with a capital v, with trendy clothes that look like they were carved on her frame, and killer heels on her feet, who is to say that she’s not a candidate for heaven? What is it about her appearance that tells us that she cannot be loved by God, or that if she says she loves God she’s lying? Where do we even get these ideas from?

Pastor D was loved by all of us in church, a very generous young man who always told us not to call him pastor. The first time he visited the cell fellowship where I was resident minister, the devil was literally quaking I’m sure. His booming voice shook the very foundations of that little bungalow, and one old man in the next house just had to see who had brought Jesus down from heaven. This old man who I’d invited, no begged countless times to fellowship with us, was now quaking in tandem with Pastor D’s bellowing. Months later, we were all surprised to hear that Pastor D had put his friend’s sister in the family way. Like most scandals, news of this one opened the way for more confessions of other sisters in the choir that Pastor D had been shacking up with.

Shouldn’t Jesus be the standard? The Jesus who rolled with misfits and ex harlots? He didn’t judge them, and he had a special anointing to judge, but didn’t. He saw them the way they didn’t see themselves, and then he taught them to be who they could be, just by loving them. And he told us to do things the way He did them. We’re quick to say ” Yes I’m a Christian,” yet we cannot even live like Christ.

I realize I’m always going to be a misfit within the church, and without, if truth be told. The more I know of this world, the less I want to conform to it and its horrible conventions and double standards. I won’t wear denim because it’s fashionable, I’ll wear it because it’s comfortable. And I won’t stop wearing it to church either. But it doesn’t make me love God less than those who wear frocks. Better yet, it doesn’t make Him love me less.

That prayer meeting morning, I got to church and caught myself counting the number of girls, women and mothers who also wore denim. They were ten. But then I shook it off real quick. The business of the day was prayer, and if God answered me on time, hopefully I wouldn’t have to live with my mother for much longer.

Hehehe.

Chimamanda’s TED Talk, titled THE DANGERS OF A SINGLE STORY opened my eyes to how judgmental we are as a people. Just because someone looks a certain way, we brand them accordingly. Stereotypical Profiling, as I like to call it.

I’ve rambled again, don’t know where I am. I’m just pained, you know? This is my small plea. Let’s all shun stereotypical profiling. Let us also shun Christianity as a form of religion. The Christianity that is void of the power that transforms religion into a relationship, a lifestyle reflecting the life of the Master.
What’s your single story story? I’d love to hear it and share it if you want. Drop a line, will you?